Tomcat Rio: A Topgun Instructor on the F-14 Tomcat and the Heroic Naval Aviators Who Flew It

By Dave Baranek

From Topgun to Squadron Command 

You’re in the cockpit of the legendary F-14 Tomcat fighter, blazing along at twice the speed of sound seven miles above the ocean and the carrier that hurled you off its deck. You’re practicing dogfighting with “aggressors,” guys on your side flying F-16s. You’re patrolling the tense skies above Iraq, and with the push of a button you can launch the 100-mile Phoenix missile that can blow a foe to scrap before you even see him. You are an expert in fighter tactics and aircraft carrier operations, and it all leads to your command of an F-14 fighter squadron of more than three hundred people.

Sounds like a week’s worth of daydreams, but it’s all real-life in the career of Dave “Bio” Baranek, and he shares it with you in the exciting, superbly crafted new book, Tomcat Rio. Dave – callsign “Bio” – pulled his readers into the exciting world of the F-14 and the Navy’s TOPGUN program with his popular books Topgun Days and Before Topgun Days. Now he’s back with the rest of the story, as he reaches the top level of expertise and proves it, not just in graded competitions but also where it counts, where you shoot at them and they shoot at you.

Dave also shares the challenges he faced. A deadly foe called complacency. Learning a whole new mission late in his career. The unexpected trials that come with leading a squadron in the dynamic environment of Naval Aviation. This third volume is full of adventures, lessons, and inspiration. If you are a casual reader, you’ll turn the last page as a dedicated Tomcat fan.

To make it all even more real, Tomcat Rio includes dozens of Bio’s best and most acclaimed photos. Photographer George Hall hailed one shot as “one of the best Tomcat photos ever taken.”

In words and pictures, Bio immerses you in rich detail. He pipes you aboard as a member of an F-14 squadron. You share the camaraderie of Type A personalities. You plan risky missions, going toe-to-toe against America’s most volatile foes. You can almost smell the pungent jet exhaust, almost feel the gut-wrenching G’s of a dogfight, as Tomcat Rio pitches you into the thick of it as only Bio can tell it. Strap in! You’re going for one fantastic ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skyhorse
• Release date: Sep 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781510748231

Dave Baranek

Dave “Bio” Baranek is the author of Topgun Days and Before Topgun Days. He enjoyed a successful and satisfying twenty-year career in the United States Navy, starting with assignments to F-14 Tomcat squadrons and the elite Topgun training program, and on to the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the US 7th Fleet. Baranek retired from the Navy in 1999 and is now a defense contractor. He is married and lives in Satellite Beach, Florida. Learn more about Dave Baranek at www.TopgunBio.com.

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Copyright © 2020 by Dave Bio Baranek

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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Moma Lin

Cover photo credit: Digital illustration by Dorian Dogaru

Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-4822-4

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-4823-1

Printed in China.

The appearance of U.S. Department of Defense visual information does not imply or constitute endorsement.

To my beautiful wife, Laura.

BONUS FREE RESOURCES

This book comes with bonus free resources: private video interviews on my experiences flying in the Tomcat and instructing at Topgun, photos not used in the book, and more.

To gain access, register via the form on this web page https://fightson.net/bio/?utm_source=book

From time to time, you’ll also receive emails sharing new articles, videos, and photos. If this is not of interest, you can easily unsubscribe.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

1. 1,000-P OUND M ISSILE

2. B ACK TO THE B IG F IGHTER (I H AVE A R ADAR A GAIN !)

Intel Brief:

The Tomcat Community, 1987

3. J OINING THE B ULLETS

4. S UPERSONIC IN THE A IR AND ON THE G ROUND

Intel Brief:

Callsigns

5. W E ’ RE C OMPLACENT !

6. O PERATION E ARNEST W ILL

Intel Brief:

Monkey.

7. F LYING THE S TRAIT

8. G OING OFF THE L INE

9. FNG

10. T HE S ECOND H ALF – I T ’ S N OT O VER T ILL I T ’ S O VER

11. S UNSETS ON THE F ANTAIL

12. H ELLO , B LACKBIRD

13. C HANGES ON THE G ROUND AND IN THE A IR

Intel Brief:

Air-to-Air Missile Comparison—1987

14. T HERE ARE T WO F S IN FFARP

15. S UMMERTIME AT M IRAMAR

16. T AKING THE G LOVES O FF

17. C HALLENGES AND C HANGES

18. O NCE M ORE ACROSS THE P ACIFIC

Intel Brief:

Flight Deck Cycle and the Fuel Ladder

19. C RYSTAL B LUE C ONES OF F LAME , F IFTY F EET L ONG

20. L EAVING S O S OON ?

21. F AREWELL TO F IGHTERTOWN

22. B ECOMING A P OWER P OINT R ANGER

23. T HE F IGHTING C HECKMATES

Intel Brief:

Facts and Opinions on the New Squadron Environment

Intel Brief:

The 569 Bulkhead Affair and LANTIRN

24. C HECKMATE O NE

25. C LAWING O UR W AY B ACK

Intel Brief:

Operation Southern Watch

26. G REEN I NK

27. S NAPSHOTS FROM THE T IP OF THE S PEAR

28. T RIUMPHANT R ETURN

29. I S TAND R ELIEVED

30. E PILOGUE

Appendix: Final Remarks to VF-211 at Quarters, Aug 6, 1998

Glossary

Acknowledgments

Plates

INTRODUCTION

Welcome to the real world of the F-14 Tomcat and the US Navy fighter squadrons that flew it! Exhilarating catapult launches…6.5-g dogfights against F-16s…reviewing the work of petty officers for a major inspection…briefing at midnight for a 2 AM launch…watching Iranian airspace, knowing I could launch a missile at a hostile target up to one hundred miles away…and later, responsibility for three hundred people…barhopping with squadronmates in Key West…watching the fireball from a 1,000-pound bomb we just dropped.

You get the idea.

This is my third book. In the other two I was in more structured environments: Naval Aviation training, junior officer in my first squadron, instructor at the now-famous Topgun school. This time I’m in an environment that I can shape to a greater extent, on the ground and in the air. New freedoms, new consequences, new risks, new adventures.

You’ve opened this book, you’re reading this page—you must have an affinity for Naval Aviation, or for flying stories in general. So do I! The one you’re holding is not just about a career. It’s also a tribute to the Grumman F-14A Tomcat.

When designed and introduced, the Tomcat was the Navy’s replacement for the F-4 Phantom II, which embodied the term a legend in its own time. No one knew Tomcats would serve for more than 30 years and become legendary on their own. We were proud to fly them and confident in their effectiveness, and it is an honor to contribute to the Tomcat’s legacy. But, I don’t whitewash the story: I’ll talk about system failures and challenges associated with keeping these jets flying.

Yes, some of these stories celebrate the Tomcat’s versatility and impressive capabilities and mention my own abilities, which were the product of years of training and experience, supported by my personal commitment. But some of these stories spring from questionable decisions or less-than-optimum situations—events that made the biggest impression on my memory. Among hundreds of incident-free flights, moments like these are a part of almost any aviation experience. Naval Aviation, where an emphasis on safety has produced an incredible reduction in mishaps over the past fifty years, still presents a variety of circumstances that for an author is the gift that keeps on giving.

As I wrote this book, I thought about the many squadronmates, officer and enlisted, with whom I shared these experiences, but didn’t happen to be involved in one of the stories. If you’re one of those great people, I hope you’ll see yourself in this book and take pride in your service to this great nation.

So get into your flight gear, strap in, and … one more thing:

Fly Navy!

CHAPTER 1

1,000-POUND MISSILE

FOX 3!

Trying to control the excitement in my voice, I transmit the code words. My left thumb presses a red button marked LAUNCH. And one second later a mighty AIM-54 Phoenix missile drops from the belly of the F-14 Tomcat fighter. I can almost feel the plane’s relief as its half-ton, million-dollar hitchhiker roars away with its tail on fire and its radar nose sniffing out the target ahead.

I’d said those two words hundreds of times during my five years in the back seat of an F-14, flying as a RIO, a radar intercept officer. But those were training shots; nothing came off the jet. Before today, Fox 3 meant I had targeted the adversary and could have punched the red button as a role-playing enemy jet streaked toward me, our two speeds adding up to a closure rate of 800 mph, maybe 1,000, maybe more. In the debriefing afterwards, the code would serve as a marker as we reconstructed the action.

Not today. This time it’s totally different.

I’m flying with Jeff Moon Mullen, a lieutenant with three years in Tomcats, one of the junior pilots in Fighter Squadron 2 (VF-2 in Navy terms). I’m also a lieutenant, but a mid-level officer because it’s my second tour of duty in a fleet F-14 squadron. Moon is easygoing and unassuming, but very serious about his job. This missile exercise, called missilex, is a workout for me as RIO, but he’s as focused as I am.

I’m Bio. My last name rhymes with bionic, but that got shortened to Bio and it stuck.

We’re in airspace designated for live missile launches, about 150 miles west of Los Angeles, with nothing below but the empty Pacific Ocean. Range control makes very sure that no other aircraft strays into the airspace. No ships or boats, either.

We’ve arrived early and are orbiting at 300 knots until the C-130 Hercules cargo plane gets here with our target. We’re shooting at a drone—unmanned, of course; it’s a live missile exercise. There’s a detailed schedule, and everyone is very professional—they do this all the time—but my internal clock is running about double speed as the drama builds.

Now the C-130 arrives and turns south. You know the feeling: all is running smoothly, something’s about to happen—but when? We’re calmly circling, circling—and suddenly the intercept controller lights the fuse: C-130 is steady, heading one-four-zero. Bullet two-zero- five, your contact is three-one-seven at seventy-two miles. Red range. Recorders on.

I reply, Two-zero-five coming left to three-one-zero. Red range.

The red range means don’t launch the missile yet; the Hercules with people in it is still in the danger zone. So we start the run with a long setup of 72 nautical miles. My system is working perfectly, and as we turn northwest a symbol appears on my radar display. Its bearing and distance match the call from our controller, so I know it’s the C-130. I’m building a decision matrix, and this correlation is a key element.

We’re level now, at 20,000 feet. We accelerate to 450 knots—that’s a mile in about twelve seconds—with a live AIM-54A Phoenix strapped to our belly. We know the deadly Phoenix can fly—and kill—from farther away than any other air-to-air missile of its day, but today’s shot will be only twelve miles, so the missile will use its brain more than its legs. Our missilex is designed to check out some of the exotic moves this world-class weapon can do. Can it punch through an enemy’s radar jamming? We’ll see.

We’re racing toward the launch point when a voice from the C-130 alerts us. Stand by for launch. Target away! A new symbol pops up on my display as the old symbol—the C-130—high-tails it for shore.

Back on land, omniscient in his range control center, a radar controller sees all, knows all, and calmly updates us all. Green range, he says as the C-130 flees the scene. Bullet two-zero-five you are cleared to arm, cleared to fire. Target bearing three-two-zero at fifty-two miles, heading one-four-five.

Now it’s Moon on the intercom: Master Arm on, Bio. AIM-54 selected. Looking good up here, he says. We haven’t said much in these few minutes, but we’re both on the same page. In the F-14 Tomcat, the pilot flips the master arm switch to enable a weapons launch. Master arm—what a great name for a switch!

Two-zero-five, green range, I confirm. Contact three-two-two at fifty. Slightly different number from the controller’s call, but things changed quickly.

The target accelerated after launch, and now its speed combined with ours adds up to a closure of 1,000 knots; that’s one nautical mile in less than four seconds. But it’s way below us, flying as planned at only 100 feet above the water. The information on my radar confirms that I’ll have to manage a three-dimensional intercept. Moon, come right to three-four-zero, I tell him. The pilot flies the plane, but in an intercept, the RIO runs the show.

We’re closing fast. At 30 miles, here it comes; the target is trying to jam my system, confusing it with a barrage of radar gibberish. I can see it on my display, and I push a button to counter it. We trained for this in simulators, and I’m glad we did, because out here there will be no do-overs. This is the real thing: real target, real Tomcat, real missile.

Well, not quite. Our missile’s 135-pound warhead has been replaced with a telemetry package for today’s event. This is a test shot and the engineers want all the data they can get.

Twenty miles, start the descent, I say. Moon points the nose down ten degrees, as we practiced. It actually feels steeper than it sounds.

Things are happening fast now. I check and recheck the essentials: radar and switch settings, intercept angles and speeds and altitudes, and the letters PHA for Phoenix, AIM-54A glowing on the Weapon Selected display. As planned, we’re in a 10-degree dive, because the target is far below us. Suddenly my red Launch button lights up; the weapons system is telling me we’ve closed to a valid launch distance. The button is located in a low corner of the instrument panel, but it gets my attention. At 13 miles I tell Moon to stand by. A heartbeat later I punch the button. Fox 3!

It takes one second for the airplane to tell the missile everything it needs to know. Then powerful explosive charges blow the missile off its rail. As it leaves the plane, I add, Op away, a standard radio call for a missilex, to let controllers know it’s on its way.

The big Phoenix falls free for a few feet, then the rocket motor fires. My brain is at hyper-speed. I recheck the displays and switches. And finally I let myself look outside. Over Moon’s shoulder I see the fearsome missile roar away, trailing a vivid orange flame. It rises above our nose for a moment, then dives and speeds away.

If the human brain has a save folder, that brief video clip went straight into it. Those fleeting seconds are surely one of the coolest sights of my entire career! Here’s my camera, brought along for just such a moment, but I didn’t even try for a photo. The one in my head is enough.

Moon eases the dive, and we level off around 2,000 feet. He rolls to the right a little so we can both see the action. The target is streaming a tail of smoke to help us spot it, and the Phoenix is scribing its own smoky signature. In a few seconds the missile has dusted off the drone. I see a slow-motion eruption of flame, but that’s only in my mind. In the real world it’s just a close fly-by.

Oh! That was good! Moon yells.

Intercept, says Range Control, calm and professional. I can almost hear him yawn. Then he vectors us to two other jets that have already shot at their targets, and we join up and go home to Miramar. Below us, the Phoenix goes for a swim, having sent its precious data and done its job well. Our target drone pops its parachute and turns on its radio beacon, to be recovered and used again. Jammer, smoke, parachute—those target drones are impressive little machines!

Back on the ground, Range Control tells us that our missile zipped past the target with a scant six feet to spare. Given a warhead and proximity fuse, scrap metal would have rained into the Pacific today.

Today? This adventure was on a sunny afternoon in March 1988. Moon and I had carefully prepared for that flight. We’d flown the mission at Miramar in computer-driven simulators, detailed mockups of the F-14 Tomcat’s front and rear cockpits. I’d flown in real Tomcats for more than five years, so the simulators that would have thrilled any kid were, to me, well, boring. But once we started practicing the profile for our missilex, I put on my game face.

This was the Cold War era, and our forces had already seen how Soviet aircraft could send out false signals to fool a missile’s radar and kick it off course. I had to learn to recognize an unusual pattern on my radar scope and route the info to the missile, while controlling the radar intercept to get us into firing position. Moon and I had to work as a team, and the payoff was that scant six feet. No boom, no flame—but hey, six feet at a thousand miles an hour! In the air, as we confidently approached launch range, I was happy we’d run those boring simulators.

We almost got the real boom and flame that day. The day was a two-fer; we took off that morning carrying an AIM-9 Sidewinder with a live warhead to shoot down, for real this time, an unmanned QF-86 target. It was an obsolete F-86 fighter, the once-awesome Sabre jet from the 1950s, and despite its years, its shining silver finish was gorgeous.

We got into position to take the shot several times, but our cockpit display showed we were outside the launch envelope, and we didn’t want to screw up. We later learned that the missilex planners wanted us to shoot outside the envelope—but they never said, Take the shot! So we were denied the memorable sight of an exploding fighter. We returned to Miramar to refuel, shook it off, and came out for the afternoon missilex.

What a day! It happened about a year after I came back to flying F-14 Tomcats, after two and a half years flying in the relatively simple, agile F-5 Tiger II as a Topgun instructor. It was great to be back in Tomcats, and once again be part of a fleet Tomcat squadron!

The shot that afternoon enters the books as a lethal miss. But it enters this book as an adventure, a lesson both in the air and on the ground, a favorite file among many unforgettable entries in my cranial save folder. My time in VF-2 was full of adventures and lessons, and it set a course for the remainder of my Navy career.

Training and practice, plans and simulators, briefings and debriefings—and then the booms and the flames and the white knuckles as the make-believe becomes real. Strap yourself in and come along on the flight of a lifetime!

CHAPTER 2

BACK TO THE BIG FIGHTER

(I HAVE A RADAR AGAIN!)

Being a Topgun instructor was an honor. Demanding, challenging, rewarding—but then it was over. I was a mid-level lieutenant, 28 years old, thinking, What do I do next?

A few instructors who left the Topgun squadron decided to go all the way and leave the Navy. They had already committed many years of their young lives in service to our country, and I respected their decisions. Sure, they ditched some massive unpleasantries—six or seven months overseas on deployments, and risking your life almost every day at your job. But they also missed some incredible experiences. Can anything beat flying jets in a fighter squadron? Not for this lieutenant. I stayed Navy. That meant returning to an F-14 squadron, which was just what I wanted.

Near the end of my Topgun tour, I was pleasantly surprised to get a letter from the skipper of Fighter Squadron 2 welcoming me to the squadron. There were ten Tomcat squadrons at Miramar, and I hadn’t even thought about which one I might like to join. I knew the Navy managed hundreds of thousands of people assigned to hundreds of squadrons, ships, and other billets, and I trusted the process. Glad I did; VF-2 was a good place to be, and it felt good to be recruited. Well, I never learned whether they asked for me, or just sent the letter after the Navy assigned me. Who cares? It was a nice touch.

I checked out of Topgun, and on February 23, 1987, checked into—not VF-2 but VF-124, the West Coast F-14 training squadron (the RAG—see Glossary). It was only a few hangars down from Topgun, so my commute didn’t change. What did change was the workload, which was much lighter during a three-month refresher course that was standard for guys with previous experience returning to the Tomcat. Like me. I’d stayed close to F-14s during my two and a half years with Topgun.

At last, some breathing room. In 1985, early in my Topgun tour, I’d married a terrific girl named Laura, and we’d bought a house. Topgun left little time for the things a new homeowner wants to do, so my flexible schedule at the RAG gave me a welcome chance to catch up. I planted a new yard. I replaced a fence. I washed my yellow ‘74 Corvette more often. Hey, the ‘Vette fit my vision of the fighter jock image.

Before I could return to the skies in an F-14, there were two months of classes and some qualifications (quals) to renew: a flight in the high-altitude chamber to feel again the insidious dangers of hypoxia, a dip in the big pool for a water survival refresher. But the most memorable was Shipboard Aircraft Firefighting. Our carriers had suffered three terrible fires in the 1960s: USS Oriskany in 1966, USS Forrestal in ’67, and USS Enterprise in ’69—and the crews responded heroically. But more than two hundred crewmen died and hundreds were injured. The Navy soon realized that, in a fire, any crewman could help save the ship. So a two-day training course began, and all on board a carrier had to take it: officers, enlisted, cooks, radar operators…everyone.

I’d taken the course once before, and it was something you don’t forget: the heat and roar of the orange oil-fed flames, the blinding, choking smoke that filled the training hangar. Yes, we fought fires inside a hangar. In the early classes, each fire spawned a black plume that marred the beautiful blue San Diego sky. By the time I came along in the 1980s, a medium-sized building had been erected to contain the smoke and scrub it so that only clean air was exhausted. Great for the nice blue sky, but it didn’t help the folks inside the hangar. Including me.

The first morning introduced us to spray nozzles, fire-fighting chemicals, and the automated systems installed on carriers. Then the instructors showed us actual video from those carrier fires—a hellish horror that, believe me, got our attention. There had been major improvements in procedures and equipment in the aftermath of those fires, but when you are dealing with jet fuel, weapons, and anything else that burns, nothing makes the danger go away.

After lunch we moved outside. We warmed up (pun intended, sorry) with small fires and simple extinguishers, then moved up to bigger equipment: high-pressure water pumping through hoses as fat as your wrist and roaring out through heavy brass nozzles. Until you’ve actually wrestled one of those writhing snakes, you can’t imagine the strength of a stream of water. We were glad they’d warned us to dress down, in clothing we wouldn’t mind getting dirty or damaged. Most of us aviators wore our flight suits.

We had a great time spraying things and taming the water-serpent. But this was just the rehearsal. The second day began with more classroom time and then lunch. And then it was time for the main event: Man versus Fire!

The instructors had been savvy and professional all along, but once inside the training hangar they got more serious. The hangar floor was a diabolical clutter of metal pipes with high-pressure spray nozzles that would unleash a roaring maelstrom when the instructors ignited the spray. There were two fire centers that would be attacked by four teams of students wielding hoses. The walls and ceiling were black with soot. One look and you’d know what demons dwelled in here. And that floor! As you would expect, it was slippery from the water and fuel sloshing around on it every day.

We took our positions, six fire-tamers per hose. The instructors reviewed the procedures. We all said we were ready. And then the end-of-the-world inferno roared to life.

Fire has a primordial effect on the human psyche, and I was facing a huge one. But my rational brain put together the training, the powerful shaft of water lunging from the brass nozzle, and the nearness of my five teammates, and assembled it all into something I guess I could call courage. This is training, I kept reminding myself. Steady, steady. This is training, like when I rode the helo dunker in Pensacola and got waterboarded in SERE school. My team and the three others marched slowly, steadily, toward the hellfire. The water spray helped control the temperature as the oil-fed blaze radiated a broiling heat.

And then the smoke came down. That’s how everyone described it: The smoke came down. The blazing oil threw up a pall of dense smoke, and those scrubbers did nothing to help us inside the hangar, so the space quickly filled from the top down. You couldn’t see more than a couple of feet. The deep orange-red glare of the flames flickered through the smoke as our rational brains made us play the hose back and forth and slowly move forward. No masks, respirators, or other special equipment, just six guys and a hose.

As a lieutenant, I was the leader of my team, and I had to keep my hand on the shoulder of the nozzle man. About every thirty seconds I would tap him to go to the back of the team, and the next guy became the nozzle man. Sounds simple, until you try passing a fire hose at full bore from one man to another in the face of the fires of Hades. It’s not a garden hose. That monster pulls and rears like a bronco in a rodeo!

We were attacking the fire—and winning!—when suddenly there was noise and commotion on our left. Tongues of flame lashed out where a team had been. We saw faint flashes of sunlight as students scrambled out of the hangar through the bailout panels in the walls. We shifted left to beat back the surging fire and keep it away from a couple of guys who were trying to get to their feet on the slippery floor. In a few minutes, with an instructor’s encouragement, we had the blaze contained. We were filthy with soot and soaked with spray, but the fires